The man I gave my heart to
by Lestrudel S
Summary: The Doctor wakes up one morning and discovers that he only has one heart; Sherlock wakes up and discovers that he has two. When logic is eradicated, the men who have the answers to everything put their lives and everything else at risk to find the answer to the one puzzle they can't solve. Sherlock/Dr.Who AU crossover. T for probable violence and language
1. Chapter 1

The Doctor bolted up, clutching his chest, unable to breathe properly. His left heart was beating extraordinarily fast, his right doing nothing at all. Something was seriously wrong. He was travelling alone. Why? Why be so stupid? He needed someone to help him. _One of his hearts wasn't beating_. He eventually managed to get his breathing under control somehow, the air filling his lungs again. What was wrong with him?

At that exact moment, a certain consulting detective fell clumsily out of bed. His pulse rate was slow. Was he dying? For once, the great Sherlock Holmes had no idea what was happening to him.

"John! John! Something's wrong with me! I think I'm dying!"

"Then die quietly, it's four o'clock in the morning and I have work tomorrow- today!"

"Something isn't right, John! Hel-" his lungs cut out, and Sherlock wasn't able to breathe. What was wrong with him?

Just as John rushed to help Sherlock upon realizing that he genuinely couldn't breathe, the Doctor was using the TARDIS's technology to perform an x-ray on himself. He gazed open-mouthed at the results. He hadn't expected this. This was completely illogical, far beyond reason. Maths, physics, all the timey-whimey things in the world and even his sonic screwdriver couldn't reverse what had happened. He only had one heart. _The Doctor was human_.

"Oh...oh my God, Sherlock. Even you can't work out what's happened here."

"What is it, John?" Sherlock asked his best friend, genuinely scared.

"I...I have no idea what...Sherlock, you've got two hearts!"

The consulting detective collapsed spontaneously. This defied logic. This was beyond anything that even remotely made sense. He couldn't deduce what had happened in a million years. All sense was useless, wit and sarcasm and clever remarks couldn't help, not when the facts of the world had been destroyed in an instant. Sherlock had two hearts. _Sherlock wasn't human._

He needed Clara. He needed Amy. He needed Donna, Martha, Rose, Sarah-Jane. He needed _help_. He needed his heart back. He needed to find the man who had taken it and get it back, by force if necessary. The Doctor sunk to his knees, head in hands, defiant and determined yet resigned. How had this even happened? Why? Who? What? Where? How? Something was wrong with the world, the universe. Something was terribly, _terribly _wrong. There was one timelord left, and he didn't even know what he was. The Doctor was _human_. What should he do? Carry on as normal? Get a job? He couldn't keep calling himself 'The Doctor' anyway, it lost it's charm if there wasn't anything else mysterious about him. He was normal. Ordinary. _Boring_. He fidgeted with his bowtie, and suddenly had the urge to rip it from his neck and put on a scarf instead. Weird.

Sherlock lay on the sofa, with three nicotene patched on his arm. He wanted to use more but John forbade him to, his doctor instincts kicking in easily. He was also a concerned friend who didn't like Sherlock's habits at the best of times. At least he wasn't resorting to class A drugs as he may have a few years ago. But he _did _need to think- three patches would usually help but this was more than a three-patch problem. How many patched would it take with two hearts? Six? Twelve? _Sixty_? He didn't know what he was, why this had happened. Not knowing scared him more than the hound he thought he had seen, glowing red eyes, matted black fur, vicious teeth. This was at least five times as bad; did that equate to fifteen patches? All he _did _know was that he wanted a red bowtie, for some reason that was beyond him. Maybe the man, thing, alien he had stolen a heart from liked bowties. That was the only slightly logical conclusion he could draw.

They both had exactly the same thought at exactly the same time- _I need to find him..._

**_So, that's the first chapter! Feel free to tell me what you think, whether it's compliments or concrit, I love it all. This is just a fun thing I'm doing with a random crossover idea I had, I'll happily write more if it's wanted :)_**


	2. Chapter 2

"Have you worked it out yet?" asked a concerned John Watson.

"The only explanation which is even remotely rational is that I've grown another heart somehow, but I know that didn't happen..."

"So what did happen?"

"I've got a feeling that I stole it from someone else."

"That's ridiculous! The man would have had to have two hearts!"

"I know! It makes no sense. Maybe I should just give up and shoot the wall again."

"And have Mrs. Hudson evict you?"

No reply. John hadn't expected one.  
Sherlock lay for hours on end, just thinking. Maybe the man- alien -would track him down and get his heart back somehow. He hoped so; he didn't want to waste the time and energy involved when he could be using it on a case. He sighed, feeling utterly useless. He was bored. He didn't have a case to take his mind of of this...thing that had happened to him. He had panicked at first, was genuinely scared, but then the feeling kind of dulled. This was dull, like everything else. Boring. Banal. He briefly wondered how the other man felt, but it was out of curiosity not sympathy. He was a sociopath. A high functioning sociopath; not high functioning enough to work out what had happened. He sighed, again, and rolled over on the sofa. What he really needed was a triple homicide. Even a double would do. He put his hands on his chest, feeling the pulse of both his hearts. It was a weird sensation, to say the least. He wondered which planet the man was from- he couldn't name one, though. All his knowledge of the planets in the solar system had been deleted a long time ago, and he didn't remember learning about anything _outside _of the solar system, but the knowledge would be in his mind palace somewhere if he needed to find it.  
He picked up his phone.

_Have you got a case for me? SH_

_No, nothing you would be interested in._

_Lestrade! SH_

_What?_

_Sign your texts! Data, remember? SH_

_Right, sorry, whatever GL_

"Gregory Lestrade. What kind of name is that?" he said to no-one in particular.

"It's not any worse than Sherlock Holmes." John replied, looking up from the paper he was reading.

Sherlock shrugged in reply.

"Is there nothing on your blog that I could take?"

"No, nothing that's even remotely interesting."

"I want tea."

"Make it yourself."

"No."

"Well I'm not doing it. You're a grown man, you don't need me to run around for you."

"Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted.

"What, dear?"

"I want tea!"

"Okay Sherlock, just this once. I'm not your house keeper, you know."

Sherlock looked at John with a satisfied smile.

"Unbelievable. Unbelievable." He muttered into his paper.

"What? Sociopath, remember?"

John sighed. Yes, his best friend was most definitely a sociopath.

* * *

Time And Relative Dimensions In Space- TARDIS. Extremely useful. Priceless. Not quite his, really, it was stolen- but it was a home, of sorts. A home with an incredibly sensitive and intelligent computer core.

He was scanning the entire earth for a man that wasn't quite a man. He just had to look for an irregular heartbeat. After days and days of intense search, the TARDIS picked it up; the pulse of a man with two hearts. Central London, 221b Baker Street. Three people lived in the building- , as she was referred to, John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was the man who had stolen his heart. He would get it back, somehow.

The next day, The Doctor landed the TARDIS in a quiet park, not far from Holmes's flat. He knew London quite well; although he had a time machine and could go anywhere in the universe and at any time, he visited modern day London a lot.  
He arrived outside of 221b Baker Street, but then realized he had to idea what to say or do. Only Holmes was in by the looks of things, both the other occupants out. Maybe this would be a good time. Or maybe he could do this better...  
His brain formulating a plan, he headed back to the TARDIS. Oh, this would be good. This would be _fun_.


	3. Chapter 3

_I assume you've been to the fairground before, Mr. Holmes?_

Sherlock's expression was quizzical as he looked at the message. He didn't recognize the number.

_I haven't, as a matter of fact. My parents never took me and I never went with friends. SH_

The Doctor had expected Holmes to ask who he was. Strange.

_I wonder, would you like to come with me?_

_That depends on who's asking. SH_

_Oh, just a man who would like his heart back._

Sherlock put his phone on standby before placing it down on the table and returning his hands to the prayer position. The man had found him, somehow. The beating of both his hearts remained steady as he planned how he would confront him. He briefly wondered if this was Moriarty who had been texting him- no, this wasn't his style. Elaborate, but not elaborate enough. Not _enigmatic _enough. It was downright _boring_, if he was honest, which he always was. Dull. Menial. Banal. Stupid, _stupid_, why were people so stupid? Ugh. He was dangerously close to shooting the wall again.

"John, we've got to go."

"Where's the crime scene?"

"This isn't a case. I'm meeting the man I owe a heart to." He said, sending a text.

_Ocean Beach. Be there in half an hour. SH_

* * *

It really was too hot to be wearing a suit, The Doctor thought, as he watched Sherlock Holmes and his _companion _enter the fairground. His mop of dark, curly hair was ruffled gently by the wind as he looked distastefully at the rides, the people working them, the people riding them. John Watson looked happy enough, though. He was a doctor, a _real _doctor. Co-incidence.

Sherlock spotted him- a man wearing a shirt, suit trousers, a red bowtie and red suspenders, a light tweed jacket slung over his shoulder. His hair was styled in a quiff. Ridiculous. He couldn't believe he had taken a heart from this man, no matter how many teenage girls were sneaking looks at him and giggling.

"That him?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, and approached him.

"Hello Sherlock. This weather's _marvellous_, don't you think?" he said, grinning.

"Quite."

"Now, what to go on first? The waltzers, the boat, the rollercoaster. So much choice! And you've never been before."

"I think you should explain why I have your heart, first."

"I think that's for _you _to explain, if I'm honest."

The two men looked at each other. Sherlock hated the man who's name he didn't even know. The Doctor hated Sherlock.

Sherlock took a swing at The Doctor, who ducked the punch and put his arm around Sherlock's neck, strangling him. They had attracted quite a lot of attention. John looked away, embarrassed.

"Give me my heart back!"

"I want to but I can't!"

"I'll drown you!" The Doctor shouted, hurling Sherlock in the direction of the hook-a-duck pool.

"In the hook-a-duck pool? Wow, I'm so scared!" Gasped the consulting detective. The Doctor tried to push his head down into the water but he grabbed the rim, his upper body strength keeping him from drowning. John eventually pulled The Doctor away from his best friend. Sherlock rubbed his neck and gasped for air. "Idiot." he managed to spit. Oh, he hated the quiffed, bowtied imbecile. He hated him more than Anderson.


	4. Chapter 4

"Mrs. Hudson, we've got company!"

"Wonderful, dear, I'll make you all some tea."

The Doctor looked closely at a skull. Human. It looked interesting. He was about to pick it up, but he was stopped.

"Do _not _touch the skull."

The Doctor turned around to face Sherlock and raised his hands. "Not touching it."

Sherlock glared at him.

"You don't have any fish fingers, do you?" The Doctor asked, walking towards the fridge.

"I really wouldn't go in there if I were yo-" John tried to say, but it was too late. The Doctor's head was in the fridge, and he was poking about in all of Sherlock's perfectly conditioned experiments. Literally poking- his finger was in a tray of eyeballs.

"Get out of there. _Now_."

"This really is fascinating."

"Don't make me drag you out."

"Oh, you can try. I don't suppose you would get very far, though. After all, you were nearly drowned in a hook-a-duck pool."

Sherlock lunged at The Doctor, dragging him out of the fridge by his elbow and holding a gun to his head.

"Sherlock, please..." pleaded John.

"My experiments are contaminated, _ruined_ by you. I swear I will blow your head off unless you apologize in the next ten seconds."

"No."

"Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, thr-"

"Okay, fine, sorry!"

Sherlock pulled the gun away.

"Really though, Sherlock, you should have some fish fingers. Custard, too. No custard? And you call yourself a genius." The Doctor tutted in mock disapproval.

"I don't call myself a genius, I call myself a high-functioning sociopath."

The Doctor shrugged.

"What are you, anyway? Alien? Mutant?"

"Well, currently I'm a human. Before you took one of my hearts, I was a time lord. The last. From the planet Gallifrey, although it was destroyed years ago."

Sherlock nodded. Did that make him a time lord?

There was a knock on the door. The Doctor ran to answer it, annoying Sherlock.

"Hello, dear. Are you Sherlock's friend?"

"Yes. You're Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, dear. I've got some tea for you. Not your housekeeper, just this once."

"Of course. Thank you." The Doctor said, as he took the tray and closed the door.

"Why did you answer the door? You don't actually live here." said Sherlock.

"I wanted to meet your landlady. I'm going to ask for the flat upstairs. I'll rent it until this heart thing's sorted."

Sherlock's neck snapped round. "You will _not _be living here."

"Oh, I think I will. It's your fault, anyway. You stole my heart."

"For the last time, I did _not _steal your heart!" Sherlock shouted into The Doctor's face. The Doctor poked his sonic screwdriver into Sherlock's eye.

"What was that for?" Sherlock asked, clutching his sore, watering eye.

"For lying. How else could this have happened?"

"You asked for that."

"What?"

"This."

The last thing The Doctor saw was Sherlock's fist. He blacked out. He _hated_ being human. This kind of thing happened a lot easier.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" Shouted John.

"He had it coming to him."

"_How?_"

"The obnoxious, quiffed, bowtied idiot strangled me, tried to drown me in a hook-a-duck pool, examined the skull, messed around with my experiments, called me a thief and a liar and poked me in the eye with his _thing_!"

"You didn't need to knock him out! He could be concussed!"

"I don't _care_, John! It doesn't matter whether he's concussed, brain damaged, _dead_. The man's worse than Anderson!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring Sherlock's rant. He checked that The Doctor was alright, apart from very bruised, and lay him down on the sofa. Sherlock immediately dragged him to a chair by his legs.

"What? Why, Sherlock?"

"That's my spot! My spot, John. He of all people isn't going to sit in it."

John sighed. Why was it always him?


	5. Chapter 5

An hour later, The Doctor was sitting on a chair in 221b, holding a bag of frozen peas to his head. John had apologized several times, but Sherlock, of course, hadn't apologized once.

"I didn't _give _you my heart, so you _must _have stolen it!"

"Don't talk out loud, Doctor, you lower the IQ of the whole street."

"What's that even meant to mean?!"

Sherlock sighed. Ugh. Idiot.

"If Sherlock didn't steal the heart, and The Doctor didn't give it to Sherlock, then someone or _something _made this happen. You're both geniuses. The only thing stopping you from working this out is that you both think you're amazing and never need help. _Help each other_." John tried to say.

"I can't work with him. He's an idiot." Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact way. "Don't take it personally, nearly everyone is."

"I won't help him, and I don't need his help!" The Doctor shouted.

"Will you both shut up? Look, if you want to sort this out, you're going to have to work together." John said, hoping to stop the argument he could feel coming on.

"I'm not working with him!" The Doctor and Sherlock shouted in unison.

"Right. If you want your heart back, Doctor, you need to swallow your pride and let Sherlock help you. Trust me, he'll figure it out eventually. Sherlock, if you want the heart out of you, you need to work with The Doctor and try not to insult him all the time. Do you both understand?" John asked, finally, his head in his hands. The two other men sighed, and John took that as a yes. It was as close as he would get.

The Doctor picked up his tea cup and took a sip. "It's cold." he remarked miserably.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious." Said Sherlock, with his usual ironic tone. The Doctor glared at him before heating the tea with his sonic screwdriver. Sherlock tilted his head as he watched the steam coming from the tea.

"What is that?"

"Sonic screwdriver."

"How does it work?"

"Sonic technology. You wouldn't understand."

"I would."

"You wouldn't. You're not a timelord. Well you are, technically, two hearts. But you weren't born on Gallifrey, you couldn't operate the TARDIS-"

"TARDIS?"

"Time and relative dimensions in space. In simple terms, a time machine."

"I don't think I need simple terms."

"Oh, I think you do. Not a timelord, et cetera et cetera."

"I don't believe that would affect my intelligence."

The Doctor didn't reply. He had a pounding headache, and he really didn't want to take the argument further and get another punch. He wasn't _scared_ of the consulting detective, but he had a feeling his human head couldn't take another blow any time soon.  
Sherlock, of course, assumed he had won the argument. As he would come to realize soon, that was the only time he faulted- when he underestimated people.

Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket. A text. He opened it, and could feel his mind begin to work and deduce and formulate even as he read.

_Have you worked it out yet?_

Who was it? Moriarty? The Doctor's enemy? But then, ordinary people don't have enemies, John had said. The Doctor was ordinary, he thought, or as ordinary as an alien- Gallifreyan -could get.

"Have you...worked it out...yet." Sherlock repeated slowly.

_Not yet, but I will. SH_

_Are you sure about that? _

_Absolutely. SH_

_Oh, you are so sure of yourself._

_You're not, you don't even sign your texts. SH_

_I will burn you, Sherlock Holmes. I will burn the heart out of you. HS_

"HS..." Moriarty? I will burn the heart out of you. It had to be...

"Who's...JM?" The Doctor said quietly, looking at his phone, more to himself than Sherlock, but he heard.

"JM...? JM! John!"

"What?" asked John, looking away from the TV.

"JM!"

"JM?"

"JM! Moriarty!"

"Moriarty? He must have done this!"

"Yes, but who's HS?"

"HS?" shouted The Doctor, standing up.

"Yes! HS! Who is it?"

"Harold Saxon! But...he's dead!"

"Who's Harold Saxon?"

"The last time lord! The Master!"

"Enemy?"

"Enemy!"

"Double enemies!" shouted Sherlock, grinning. This could be fun. This could be _so _fun.

"Double enemies!" yelled The Doctor, grinning back at Sherlock, almost jumping up and down with excitement.

"Is this meant to be a good thing?" said John, looking at the two of them.

"Yes!" they shouted together, still grinning.

"Well, if it'll get you two to work together, it's a miracle."


	6. Chapter 6

"Can't you just _pick one_?" Sherlock asked as he watched The Doctor sort through the numerous bowties in his chest-of-drawers. He had moved into 221c earlier that day. It had been two weeks since they met and Sherlock hated the timelord slightly less than he had a fortnight ago.

"I have to look cool. Although _all _bowties are cool, really. You know all about cool, so I'm sure you will agree."

"I have no care for fashion or adhering to it."

"Yes you do, what with your cheekbones and turning up your coat collar."

"What did you just say?" asked John, who had been helping The Doctor move boxes into his new flat.

"Yes, John's said that before too. I really don't know what you want me to do about my cheekbones, though. I can't exactly get them removed."

John laughed, and The Doctor smiled. John and Sherlock were friends, that much was obvious to him- what was his relationship with Sherlock? Maybe something like frenemies.

"So can we have a look in this...box then?" John asked, referring to the TARDIS, which The Doctor was keeping in his flat.

"Of course!" he replied. He loved to show people around the TARDIS.

He opened the door for John, who stared at the insides blankly. "It's...it's bigger on the...on the inside."

The Doctor laughed. "You going to have a look, Sherlock?"

"Boring, mundane pleasantries. Sociopath, remember? Frankly, I couldn't care less about your...TARDIS.

"No, Sherlock, I think you really will want to see this." said John, who was exploring the TARDIS in awe.

Sherlock got up, knowing John wouldn't press him unless this really was something he would want to see. He looked through the doors of the little blue police box. His mouth formed a small 'O', which it hadn't done in a while. Or ever, really. This thing- awe, was it?- he hadn't felt it before. He looked outside of the box. Rectangle. He looked inside. Huge. Cavernous. _R__ound_. He ran inside, feeling the walls and spinning around, making sure it wasn't some kind of illusion.

"I think he might be broken...he's never done that before." John said to The Doctor as Sherlock ran towards the controls of the TARDIS.

"That is...amazing. I- how? What...? It's _huge_."

"TARDIS technology." said The Doctor. "From Gallifrey."

"And...it's a time machine. How does that...it doesn't comprehend. It's illogical. Surely even _travelling _through time will change the course of it..."

"Well, people assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey...stuff."

"Wibbly wobbly..."

"Timey wimey." The Doctor finished.

"Did Sherlock just say wibbly wobbly?" John said, grinning.

"I really think he's broken."

"I'm not broken! All of this is highly illogical..._logic _is broken."


	7. Chapter 7

"So...Moriarty and The Master are working together?" asked The Doctor, after Sherlock had explained his theories to him.

"Obviously. They did this...the question is _how..._"

"The Master brought himself back to life. He can do anything. He's clever..."

"Moriarty's a criminal mastermind. His web is...huge. He can do anything, at any time, know anything..."

"So Moriarty's the brains, and The Master's the muscle- in terms of machinery, executing plans, using alien technology."

"It certainly seems like it."

"He's wasted. He's a complete genius."

"Not as genius as the consulting criminal."

"That's what he calls himself?"

"I'll thank you for not stating the obvious on such a regular bases, Doctor, it's really quite annoying."

The Doctor paused for a minute. "What kind of name's Sherlock Holmes?"

"What kind of name's The Doctor? It's not even a name, it's a title."

"I'll thank you for not stating the obvious."

Sherlock glared at The Doctor. "I'll throw you out the window."

"You wouldn't."

"I would, I've done it before."

"He has." said John.

"I'd like to see you try."

Five minutes later, The Doctor was lying on the pavement outside of 221b Baker Street, not seriously injured but _very _annoyed. He had just been thrown out of a window!  
He vaulted the window ledge, avoiding the broken glass, and hurled himself against Sherlock, who collapsed.

"Why," The Doctor said, angrily, "did you throw me out a window?!"

"You annoyed me." Sherlock said as he stood up.

"I _annoyed you_."

"Stating the obvious, ag-"

The Doctor threw a punch at Sherlock, who ducked it and rammed into him, sending him flying across the room and very nearly back out of the window.

"Sherlock!" shouted John.

"What?"

"You knocked him out! _Again_!"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's his own fault."

"_No it's not_!" John shouted. He sat down and put his head in his hands. "We get a new flatmate. You nearly _kill _him. How have I survived this long?"

"You're not boring."

"How is a time travelling alien _boring_?"

Sherlock sighed.

"You need a case."

"A case is the last thing I need. I have to focus on getting the second heart _out _of me and _into _him."

"How do you plan on doing that?"

"I don't know. First thing is to find Moriarty and this Master, Harold Saxon or whatever."

"The police need you."

"They've got you."

John looked at Sherlock quizzically. "You want _me _to take _your _cases?"

"Yes- well, some of them. If you wouldn't mind."

"It doesn't look like I have a choice."

Sherlock smiled at John, his best friend, his _only _friend, and realized just how lonely he would be without him.


	8. Chapter 8

"You came." said Moriarty, his back turned to Sherlock.

"You asked." said Sherlock, pointing a gun to his head.

"I sent a text from Lestrade saying I had a case for you."

"It wasn't in character."

"I have to admit, I wanted you to suspect something. You brought a gun, though, but it doesn't make a difference. You won't shoot. What would make a difference, though, would be having eyes in the back of your head. Nighty night, Sherlock Holmes."

That was the last thing Sherlock heard before he felt a blow to the back of his head. He collapsed face-down onto the polished floor of St. Bart's hospital, watching a pool of blood form next to his head. His last thought before he blacked out was that he shouldn't have came alone. He had told John and The Doctor not to come...

* * *

Sherlock woke up a few hours later in a concrete walled and floored room, bound and gagged. Lestrade was next to him, with a large cut on his forehead, leaving a trail of blood down the side of his head. He wasn't awake. How long would it take for John and The Doctor to realize something had happened? He was stupid, _so stupid _to come alone. He was at Moriarty's- and The Master's- mercy. At least Lestrade was there too; he wasn't _really _alone...

* * *

"Something's wrong."

"Sherlock'll be fine, don't worry about him."

"No...something's happened to him. I know Sherlock...this is strange. Something isn't right." John said, opening his phone.

_Are you okay? JW_

No reply. Sherlock always answered quickly. John called him instead. He didn't pick up.

"I'm going to St. Bart's." he said, grabbing his coat.

"Not without me you're not. Besides, you haven't been in the TARDIS yet." said The Doctor, grinning.

* * *

Sherlock's phone rang. His hands were bound; he couldn't answer it. How typical was that? A signal that he couldn't use? At least, he thought, John and The Doctor had worked out something was wrong. They were coming for him.

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me that would happen?" John said as they stepped out of the TARDIS.

"Shhhh! We need to find Sherlock _without _being found!" The Doctor whispered. They walked silently through the hallways.  
The Doctor came to a sudden stop.  
"Where are we actually going?" he asked John.

"I don't know, I was following you!"

"I've never been here before!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose. If someone had hurt Sherlock, where would they have put him?

"The basement." he said, to no-one in particular. The Doctor heard him.

"Lead the way."

John ran on silent feet through the deserted corridors, The Doctor following. They sped down a flight of stairs to the basement door.

"It's locked!"

"Get out the way." The Doctor said. He held his sonic screwdriver to the door and the lock popped open.

"That's incredible!"

"Yes, I know, sonic technology. Now let's hurry up and rescue Sherlock!"

* * *

The door opened, letting more light into the room. Sherlock squinted in the gloom. He recognized the faces of the two people opening it.

"John! Doctor!" he said, trying to keep the relief out of his voice.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. You go on one case without me and this is what happens?"

Sherlock grinned at his best friend.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock, John and The Doctor left the basement, John and The Doctor carrying an unconscious Lestrade between them. They put the DI in the TARDIS, and John said, after checking him over, that he was badly injured; broken ribs, fractured skull, suspected punctured lung- the same kind of injuries the American who broke into 221b and attacked Mrs. Hudson suffered when he 'fell out of a window', which were pretty bad.

"What now?" asked The Doctor after finding a pillow to prop up Lestrade's dangerously damaged head.

"We should go and find Moriarty!" said Sherlock, as if it was blatantly obvious.

"I'm not sure if that's such a good idea."

"Why not?"

"We'll get kidnapped- or killed!"

"Will you two shut up?!" said John. "I can hear Moriarty shouting at someone."

The three men listened to the shouted conversation. It didn't sound good for the person Moriarty was yelling at.

"Doofus!"

"Look, Jim, I'm sorry, I only took my eyes off the camera for a second-"

"It might as well have been an hour for all the difference it would have made!"

"Well there's nothing I can do now!"

"You call yourself The Master- of what? Idiots?!"

They heard a sickening thud of something hard on flesh.

"Ow! Bloody hell, Jim! Look, they're still in the building somewhere, the monitor's picking it up."

"Well then, what are you waiting for? Use the machine!"

"Alright, I'm doing it!"

"Oh and Harold?"

"_What_?"

"If you let them get away, I will make _shoes out of you_."

Harold- The Master -didn't reply. What was the machine? John was worried- if they could get Sherlock and The Doctor to swap species, there was nothing they couldn't do.  
The three men heard a lever being pulled somewhere close by, and all the lights in the hospital and The TARDIS went out. Sherlock fell to his knees, clutching his chest, wheezing _help_ repeatedly. John panicked, unable to see his friend in the darkness. The Doctor switched on his sonic screwdriver, lighting up the cavernous room enough for John to find Sherlock. His expression was pained and scared; John had seen it many times on the faces of patients in Afghanistan, soldiers and civilians alike, but it looked so alien on his best friends pale and usually calm, expressionless face that it startled John. It took him a minute to remember what he needed to do, what he would do with any other patient.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"My heart, John!" he breathed, barely audible. "The one on the right."

John put his hand over the spot where the second heart was; it was beating extremely rapidly- instead of 100 BPM, which was normal, John guessed his best friend's heart rate to be about 800 BPM, constantly beating. No wonder he was in pain, he would have excess blood pumping to his head and he wouldn't be able to get enough air into his lungs for his heart to make blood go anywhere else. His other heart was working normally, thankfully, but he was still in danger.

"I need to find that lever." said John, reluctantly stepping away from his best friend.

"No, I'll go. You need to stay with Sherlock." said The Doctor to John, looking at the consulting detective. He could die- he had seen this happen to people on Gallifrey. "I might call myself The Doctor, but I'm not actually _a doctor_. You are." he continued, holding the sonic screwdriver to a light on the TARDIS core. It switched on. "I'll be back soon. Whatever you do, _do not let The Master into the TARDIS._"

John nodded, as The Doctor walked out of the TARDIS door. He locked it- just in case -and then ran through the corridors, trying to find the lever, using the sonic screwdriver for light. Sherlock would die if he didn't find the lever, and soon...


	10. Chapter 10

"Just try to relax, Sherlock." said John after much deliberation, unsure of what to say. He was a full trained medical professional; a professional in _human_ health, not Gallifreyan, Timelord, whatever. They looked and acted human, but John was pretty sure that they functioned differently, what with two hearts. Sherlock nodded weakly, his face drenched in sweat, droplets falling to the TARDIS floor. He had removed his coat, scarf and blazer, and his shirt was damp on the chest and under the armpits, his hair plastered to his forehead. He could have been swimming.

"I'm going to die, John."

"Sherlock. Sherlock, listen to me."

Sherlock looked up at his best friend.

"You're not going to die. I won't let you and neither will The Doctor."

* * *

_Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear..._

The Doctor actually had Gallifreyan swears running through his mind rather than _oh dear_, but it meant basically the same. This wasn't good.  
He could see a huge machine- there were several TV screens, playing the CCTV footage. There were lots of complicated controls. And among them...the lever.  
It seemed simple enough to get to, until he saw The Master sat in front of the mains computer. The timelord equivalent of _shit _entered The Doctor's thoughts as he watched The Master manually inputting some binary code. _The lever must activate what the binary does, and the binary reflects the speed of Sherlock's heart rate...but how? _He said to himself, thoroughly puzzled. The ones and zeros made little sense, but he realized the more ones that were in a line of code, the faster Sherlock's heart would beat. John had estimated 800 BPM- there were eight ones in a line of code. Clever. Who's idea was this, The Master's or Moriarty's? Either way, it was scary that a line of binary code could dictate the speed of a man's heart. _But it couldn't just be binary..._

* * *

"John!"

"I'm here, Sherlock!"

"It hurts, it hurts so much!"

"I know it hurts, Sherlock, just try to relax."

"My head hurts!"

"I know it does. Just imagine something nice. Like...a triple homicide."

Sherlock managed to laugh. Just.

"Deep breaths. That's it, just keep calm."

"It sounds like I'm giving birth!"

"I am trying to help you!"

"You're an army doctor, not a midwife!"

"I'm doing the best I can! I have no idea how to slow the heart rate of a timelord!"

* * *

_I need to get to that lever..._  
"Oi Harold!" The Doctor shouted. "Over here!" He ducked under a table as The Master looked for the source of the noise. He crawled under it, and stuck his sonic screwdriver into the air. He moved to a table closer to the lever. "Still can't find me?"

"Shut up, Doctor, you _really are _a pain." Shouted The Master, who hadn't moved from his chair. The Doctor crawled towards him and grabbed his legs. hurling him away from the computer. He got up, slammed down the lever, and ran through the deserted hallways in what he hoped was the direction of the TARDIS.

* * *

__"It's stopped." Sherlock said, rolling over onto his back.

"Congratulations, you've given birth to a beautiful baby boy."

Sherlock laughed. "The doctor did it, then."

"He did."

"I should probably apologize for knocking him out. And throwing him out of a window. Although he _did _try to drown me in a hook-a-duck pool and poked a sonic screwdriver in my eye..."

"I knew it was too good to be true."

"What?"

"You apologizing."

"Sociopath, remember?"

John laughed. This was another thing he could add to his list of crazy experiences; sitting in a time machine with Sherlock, trying to calm him down as his heart threatened to pound out of his chest.

* * *

_Not good, not good, not good..._

The doctor had to trace his steps five times before heading in the right direction and finding the TARDIS. He unlocked it, burst through the doors, and collapsed behind them. The lights came back on.

"Never...again." he panted, looking at John and Sherlock.

"Sherlock just simulated giving birth. It can't have been much worse for you than it was for him." said John, grinning.

For a few minutes, no body said anything.

"I should probably let you know that I hate you considerably less than I did two weeks ago, when you tried to drown me in a pool full of rubber ducks." said Sherlock, who had regained the ability to speak properly. The Doctor laughed.

"Apology accepted, you're welcome. I'm getting that was an apology and a thank you, or at least the closest I'll ever get."


	11. Chapter 11

The Doctor flew the TARDIS out of St. Bart's and back to 221c. Lestrade woke up during the journey, very confused, and tried to jump out of the doors.

"You really shouldn't do that!" shouted The Doctor over the roar of the flying TARDIS.

"Who are you?!"

"I'm The Doctor!"

"I thought he was the doctor!" Lestrade shouted, pointing at John.

"He's _a _doctor. I'm _T__he _Doctor!"

"Thanks, mate!" John shouted, clinging on to the TARDIS core. The Doctor laughed. Sherlock, meanwhile, had accidentally let go of the core and fell backwards, grabbing on to the end of The Doctor's coat, looking terrified.

"Sherlock, let go of my coat!"

"I can't, I'll fall over!"

"You've just survived the Gallifreyan equivalent of a cardiac arrest! You'll live!"

One painful and nauseating TARDIS journey later, the four men were lying exhausted on the floor of The Doctor's flat, John explaining the whole situation to Lestrade.

"So...Sherlock has two hearts?"

John nodded.

"And he got one from The Doctor?"

John nodded again.

"Right. Thanks for rescuing me and everything, but I think I need to get home..."

"Yeah, I think you should probably get some rest."

Lestrade nodded, and with his hand on his head, got up and wandered through the door of 221c.

"You do realize that if it was the other way around, and The Master induced a cardiac arrest that affected you rather than me, you'd be dead." Sherlock said to The Doctor a minute later.

"I know that."

"You're welcome."

"I have nothing to thank you for!"

"I saved your life."

"_I _saved _your _life!"

"Then we're even."

The Doctor sighed, and rolled over to face John. "I don't know ow you've managed to put up with him for so long and still be sane."

"Barely. Barely sane."

* * *

_What does Moriarty want...? To destroy me? Merely _play _with me? I don't know. I don't know..._

Sherlock's eyes snapped open when he heard someone walking through the doorway, but it was Mycroft, so he closed them again.

"What is going on?"

"Leave me alone, Mycroft, I'm sleeping. Can't you see I'm sleeping? I'm asleep. Of course I'm asleep. Let me sleep, you're always telling me to sleep so let me sleep!"

Mycroft looked at his little brother quizzically. Nicotene patches or caffine overdose? He didn't care, so long as it wasn't anything stronger.

"There has been a blue box...manifesting in 221c nearly every day for two months."

"You really are paranoid enough to put CCTV cameras in the basement under my flat. Should I be touched? I suppose you care, but it _is _rather...for want of a better word, creepy. It's bad enough having cameras in here. Although it was nice of you to keep them _out _of the bathroom- but then I would have disabled them anyway..."

"Don't avoid the question, please, Sherlock. It's probably some clever ICT trickery you've managed to enforce on my CCTV network, but it's my duty to find out the truth."

Sherlock half-laughed. "I'll tell you the truth but you won't believe a word of it; you might even assume I'm on drugs and send me back to rehab. I wouldn't be surprised."

That didn't sound good to the older Holmes. He sighed.

"I recently discovered that I have two hearts. I encountered an alien, who looks completely human, who is from Gallifrey, a dead planet. he is- was, if he never gets his heart back -the last of his kind. He only has one heart now. The 'blue box' is the TARDIS- time and relative dimensions in space. In simple terms, a time machine. Would you like some tea, brother dearest?"

"Milk, no sugar."


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock pounded the wall until his knuckles bled. It hurt, a lot, but the blood and pain was a welcome distraction. Why, when he went down to The Doctor's flat that morning, were the TARDIS doors spray painted with _I O U? _It was Moriarty. It had to be...

He had woken a grumpy Doctor up by throwing a cold bowl of water over his head, but his initial frustration disappeared when he saw his precious TARDIS defaced with graffiti. John was woken by muffled shouts, cries, screams, wails and sobs, and a roar of 'WHERE ARE MY BLOODY BOWTIES, SHERLOCK, THIS ISN'T FU- MY FEZ! MY PRECIOUS FEZ! NOOOOOOOO!' upon hearing the latter, John rolled over and promptly fell back to sleep.

"Calm down, Doctor! We'll...rescue...your bowties...?" Sherlock said, puzzled by the fact that he had said something so trivial.

"Rescue my bowties? _Rescue _my bowties? Are they being held captive?!"

"This is Moriarty we're talking about! It's a possibility!"

"And I suppose he's _torturing _my fez?"

"Yes! No! I don't know! Two hearts; it's really messing with my head. _Mycroft!_" Sherlock bellowed, knowing his brother would hear it on the CCTV footage.

_What? I hope you realize it's six in the morning and I have a busy day ahead of me. I'm the British government. -MH_

_Jim Moriarty got into 221c and vandalized the TARDIS. Possibly holding an impressive array of bowties captive, the ransom will be rather high; looks like_ you're _going to be paying that. -SH_

_Anything else? -MH_

_May be torturing a fez. -SH_

_Are you drunk? -MH_

_No Mycroft I am not drunk, and if I was it would be none of your business. -SH_

_High? -MH_

_NO! -SH_

_Too much tea? Or have you developed a preference for coffee? Nicotine patches? Boredom? -MH_

_Just check the CCTV footage! -SH_

Sherlock then proceeded to throw his phone at the wall, cracking the Blackberry screen. Mycroft Holmes- what an incompetent fool.


	13. Chapter 13

The Doctor stared at his reflection miserably. No bowtie. No fez. No Doctor. Sherlock still had his scarf- that wasn't fair. Moriarty was Sherlock's enemy, not his.

"Why would Moriarty break in and steal nothing but bowties?" he asked, flopping down on Sherlock's sofa. He spent more time in 221b than his own flat.

"Because he's messing with our heads." Sherlock replied, wandering into his living room in his blue bathrobe. "Up." he said, looking at The Doctor.

"No."

"That's my thinking spot."

"I need it more."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do!"

_Bang_. Sherlock shot the wall an inch above The Doctor's head.

"Okay, okay, I'm getting up! No need to shoot me!"

Sherlock smirked, taking his place on the sofa and attaching a nicotine patch to his arm.

"Nicotine. Interesting."

Sherlock shrugged. "Helps me think."

The Doctor hesitated. "Can I have one?"

"I suppose an ordinary mind needs them more than extraordinary one."

"'yes' would have been an acceptable answer. You don't need to insult me."

"It's fun."

"I'm very tempted to shoot you with your own gun."

Sherlock shrugged. "Bored." he announced five minutes later.

"Go and find my bowties, then."

"Bowties are trivial."

"Bowties are cool!"

"_Scarves _and turned up collars and cheekbones are cool. Bowties...? Not really."

"Because you know all about cool."

"I know all about everything."

"Show off!"

"I don't spend my days flitting about in a bigger-on-the-inside time machine!"

"I don't spend my days deducing people's life stories!"

"People like it when I do it!"

"You _have _to be joking."

"I _never _make jokes."

"If people wanted you to know things then they would tell you."

"I can't help the fact that I'm so astute."

"That doesn't mean you have to make a point of it."

"Sociopath, remember? Complete disregard for feelings."

The Doctor shrugged and applied the nicotine patch to his arm. How could be Sherlock be a sociopath when he obviously cared for John? For Mrs. Hudson? For Lestrade? Maybe even for _him_? It didn't add up, but he would never ask. "Sociopath with a touch of narcissism."

"I'm anything but narcissistic."

"Narcissistic tendencies go hand in hand with sociopathic tendencies."

"I suppose. I never really thought of it like that?"

"How _did _you think of it?"

"I thought of being a sociopath as differently functional. Man can't live on bread alone- sociopaths can."

_I beg to differ_, The Doctor thought to himself, but he didn't reply.


	14. Chapter 14

**_This is just a kind of humorous chapter about a party in next one will have to do with the party too, but with more storyline, I promise :3 I hope it's worth a read though, still. Just a bit of fun. Not an epilogue or anything, the story isn't anywhere near finished. Anyway the POV is split three ways...kind of is anyway but y'no :) -LS _**

It was Sherlock's birthday, not that he told anyone. John knew anyway, of course, and had told The Doctor and practically anyone that could live with Sherlock's...behavior. Did Sherlock like parties? Probably not, but it was worth a try. They _had _to have a party, anyway, because it was The Doctor's birthday too. He wasn't sure exactly how old he was but the discussion lead to an explanation of regeneration and all that kind of wibbly wobbly, timey wimey stuff that both intrigued and bored Sherlock.

The three men had an unspoken agreement to go gift shopping the day before the party. Sherlock found this extremely difficult because he usually got Mycroft or Anthea to pick gifts, but not this time; partly because the two other men were his only friends in the world, and partly because he hadn't quite convinced his brother that The Doctor was real, although he was coming to the party- John had invited the older Holmes.  
Sherlock called into his favorite suit shop, knowing that they did tuxedos and bowties as well as blazers and nice shirts. He ended up buying The Doctor five bowties; a red, a brown, a cream, a white and a navy blue, all made out of a shiny, satiny kind of material. Feeling oddly considerate- he was starting to think John and The Doctor were rubbing off on him -he bought John a navy blue jumper. The real reason was that he didn't want John to feel left out, he and The Doctor both had navy blue things to wear; he would lie and say he had forgotten John's birthday when it had came around and it was a kind of thank you for organizing the party.  
On his way home, he wondered what his friends had bought him; John would pick something good, probably something to do with his work. The Doctor was fairly unpredictable in this area, being quirky and not quite human. Molly would probably get him something too, and perhaps Mrs. Hudson would make him something to eat. Lestrade and Mycroft...well, that depended on their mood, or rather how Sherlock had treated them recently. He didn't expect anyone else he knew to come; perhaps some of John or The Doctor's friends would show up.

* * *

John had scoured half of London for a fez and he couldn't find one. It would have to come in special delivery from Amazon, he supposed. He had also bought him a navy blue pair of suspenders, just in case the fez didn't come on time.  
Although John had only known The Doctor for a couple of months he was a lot easier to pick presents for than Sherlock. He eventually decided on an array of scalpels and other medical tools that he could use for dissections and the like. He briefly wondered whether Sherlock would actually need them, he had enough scattered around their flat, but then he remembered that the last one he saw had been stuck in a wall after Sherlock got bored and threw them like darts at the smiley face, and made the decision to but the pristine collection.  
He walked home, happy with his choices; he could only hope that Sherlock and The Doctor would be.

* * *

The Doctor wasn't used to shopping and had somehow managed to wander from the men's section of Next into a section filled with bras, to him embarrassment, and couldn't find his way out. He attracted a lot of stares from the women around him, and not in a good way. Not in a good way _at all_.  
He somehow managed to navigate his way out of the lingerie department and into one of the sections of the shopping mall. He looked around him; what was a good shop to look in for a present for Sherlock? Boots? Grainger Games? New look? Topshop? Hm...probably not. He avoided clothes shops as a rule after his visit to Next, but managed to find a science-y kind of shop that sold different supplies. He bought a periodic table poster, a particle diagram and a working model of the digestive system. Maybe the consulting detective would like them, he didn't know. He hoped he had a good sense of humor, and then realized Sherlock's sense of humour was _terrible_. Ah, well, it was worth a try.


	15. Chapter 15

Was it wrong of Sherlock to not want to go to his own party? Maybe, but John had threatened to invite Anderson if he didn't come, and the consulting detective really didn't want his home infected with idiocy.  
John and Mrs. Hudson spent the time before the party cleaning the flat, and Sherlock and The Doctor sulked about having to be social.

"What's the point in having a birthday party is neither of us celebrate our birthdays?!" Sherlock complained loudly to John. "Besides, all of his friends are dead! He hasn't got anyone coming!"

"Well, actually..." began The Doctor "I've sent a few invites to, well, myself."

"Isn't that a bit...paradoxical?"

"Well yes, but...anyway, there's another three versions of me coming," Sherlock groaned at hearing this "two look exactly the same as me, one is my tenth regeneration-"

"You only invited yourself?!"

"Let me finish! One of me is bringing Amy and Rory, you'll like them-"

"No I won't."

"Shut up, Sherlock! Another me is bringing Clara,"

"Dull."

The Doctor glared at him. "And the other me, the one that looks different, he's bringing Jack Harkness."

"I look forward to meeting him." said Sherlock sarcastically. Just as he finished the sentence, Mrs. Hudson walked through their door.

"Doctor, Dear, I got you some fish fingers for tonight-"

"And custard?"

"And custard, don't worry."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"No problem, dear, and Sherlock?"

"What, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Try to be nice tonight. John and I've put a lot of effort into this."

* * *

"Can you _please _change into something else?" begged John.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Sherlock, you're in your bathrobe!"

"So?"

"So The Doctor's wearing clothes-"

"No need, we're in our own home-"

"That's not the point! Please, Sherlock. Even a T-shirt and jeans. You wear a suit even if you're not leaving the house sometimes."

"Ugh, fine, _Mummy_." said Sherlock, storming off into his room to change into something. Mycroft laughed; he had taken to watching the CCTV footage of his brother's flat when he was bored- not so as to spy on them but to watch this Doctor, whom he was yet to meet. That would be fixed, though, in just a few hours. If he was even real.

Lestrade was the first to arrive; he brought a bottle of wine, in a bag addressed to 'Sherlock and both doctors'. He was the only person from the Yard- or anywhere else -who had met The Doctor before the party, even if the circumstances had been rather...unfortunate. Sherlock emerged from his room a minute later, wearing his usual style of clothes- a suit, no tie, much-too-tight shirt.

"Is Mycroft here yet?"

"No." said John, knowing what would come next.

"Mycroft, stop being a prat and get down here. Fashionably late really doesn't work for you, you should stick to punctual." said Sherlock, facing in the direction of one of the many cameras hidden in the flat.

_On my way. MH_

Sherlock began to send a text back, when a TARDIS began to manifest in the center of the living room.

"DOCTOR! YOUR GUESTS ARE HERE!" shouted Sherlock, knowing The Doctor would hear him from the downstairs flat. One of the TARDIS doors opened slowly, and a man stepped out. He looked exactly like The Doctor.

"You'll be up here in a minute. The downstairs flat doesn't lead directly to here, you could be a while."

"Oh. Well, while we're waiting for- er -me, let me introduce you to Amy" The Doctor said, looking at a tall young woman with shocking ginger hair "and Rory." he finished, pointing at a man about the same age as Amy; tall, though not as tall as Sherlock, and grinning in a friendly though goofy kind of way.

"Sherlock Holmes." said Sherlock, smiling briefly then letting his face fall.

"You're a friend of The Doctor's?" asked Rory.

"Yes- well, you could say that. I've kind of swapped species with him, you see. I've got two hearts now."

"What, so..._you_'re a timelord?"

"Yes. Don't be obvious." Rory scowled at him, and he fought back the urge to smirk, remembering that Mrs. Hudson had told him to be nice.  
The living room door swung open, and The Doctor walked through, beaming at his guests. "Amy, Rory, me, it's good to see you all. And I have to say, Doctor, you're looking wonderful tonight."

"And you call me narcissistic." muttered Sherlock.

"Right, who else are we waiting for?" asked John. Lestrade remained in stunned silence.

"Molly and _Mycroft_." answered Sherlock, glaring at a camera.

"Another two of me, Clara and Jack. Oh, by the way," said the present day version of The Doctor "I'm Doctor one, you're Doctor two, and the next versions of us are three and four respectively."

"What? Why aren't I Doctor one?"

"Because I _live_ here."

"So?"

"Can both of you _please _shut up?" shouted Sherlock. "One Doctor is bad enough, never mind four of them arguing."


	16. Chapter 16

"So what exactly do you do?" asked Amy. Sherlock noticed that she had a strong Scottish accent although she had obviously lived in England for a while.

"I'm a consulting detective. The police contact me when they're out of their depth, which is always."

"And you help them by doing what, exactly?"

Sherlock took a sip of wine before answering. "I specialize in the science of deduction."

"Fancy." Amy said, leaning against the wall.

"Was that a compliment or sarcasm?"

"If you're so observant you should be able to tell."

Sherlock took a moment to study her body, facial features, clothing, hair, makeup, analyze her tone of voice. He did it remarkably quickly, in slightly longer than the time it took to tilt his head forward. "I would say that you're impressed...but think it's a silly way of stating what I do. Why, Miss Pond, is having a large vocabulary ridiculous?" A smile pulled at Amy's lips.

"Oh, Amy, there you are." said Rory, grinning at her. "I think The Doctor wants you." Amy grinned at Sherlock before walking across the room to see The Doctor. Rory glared at him.

"Can you _please _not flirt with my wife?"

Sherlock smirked. "It's not my fault she's so taken with me."

Rory glared at him again before storming off to talk to see his wife, who was talking to The Doctor. Sherlock watched them for a while before going to talk to a short brunette girl who seemed exceedingly more interesting than the redhead.

"Sherlock seems to be having fun." John said to Lestrade. They had both been pretending not to watch their favorite sociopath as he tried to enjoy his party.

"I had no idea he was such a...flirt."

"Oh, he's not. It's all an act."

"You've...seen him do it before?"

John laughed. "On the occasion that we go out, yes."

"I wish I could attract so much attention so easily."

"Yes, he seems to enthrall anyone he wants to with the slightest effort."

Lestrade looked at him quizzically. "You're not...?"

"In love with him? No." John laughed.

"Oh...sorry." Lestrade said, embarrassed.

"Don't be. Practically anyone who's ever seen us together thinks the same. Anyway, I'm going to go and talk to The Doctor." John said, emptying his beer can and putting it on the table before going to speak to The Doctor, who was admiring a rather large rubber duck.

"Doctor!"

"What?" he said, not looking away from the duck, as if he expected it to say something.

"You weren't meant to open your presents 'till Sherlock decided to!"

"Oh, this wasn't wrapped."

"Still! You should have waited until you _both _wanted to look at them."

The Doctor shrugged, still looking at the duck. John sighed, and turned to walk over to Sherlock, but he stopped when he saw him snogging The Doctor's friend- what was her name, Clara? -thinking it best to leave them alone. He spotted Molly talking to another of The Doctor's friends, Jack Harkness, and the other three versions of the Doctor were in the corner arguing about something. Lestrade was talking to Mrs. Hudson, and the timelord's other two guests were talking to each other. That left Mycroft, who John really didn't want a conversation with, although he looked awfully lonely, standing in a corner drinking something that may possibly have been brandy. He reluctantly made his way towards the older Holmes, knowing what was to come; a long, boring chat about Sherlock.

* * *

An hour later, when Sherlock was quite done snogging and Mycroft was done blathering, The Doctor announced it was time for presents. He was delighted with the array of bowties, fastening one around his neck and the neck of the duck, whom he had names Susan. Sherlock kept up his usual air of boredom, but John could see his delight at some of the presents he had received. He awkwardly handed John a badly wrapped jumper, and he smiled, surprised at Sherlock's thoughtfulness. The entire party sang a chorus of happy birthday, both Sherlock and the Doctor managing a grin. Moriarty didn't even have to provide a distraction.

He sat on the roof of 221b Baker street, waiting for Harold to get back after locking the doors. They could make their way to the lower flat via the house next door, which Jim had ensured was empty.

"Done." whispered Harold from the ground below Jim's feet. He clambered down and they both walked into the neighboring house, descending into the cellar and crawling through the tiny vent that lead to 221c. There they would put their plan into action...


	17. Chapter 17

"Harold!"

"What?"

"Have you got it?"

"Yes, Jim, I've got it!"

"Well do it, then!"

The Master sighed taking the sonic beetle out of his pocket. It was an adaptation of sonic screwdriver technology, shaped like a beetle. He put it in the power control box; it ran around for a bit before locating the weakest point in the system and biting the wire with it's mechanical, sonic teeth, destroying the power supply in 221b and 221c Baker Street.

"What now?"

"Get onto a computer and use the binary- and do something _interesting, _please, Harold. You only gave him a heart attack last time and it didn't even work."

The Master sighed, hacking into The Doctor's laptop with his sonic screwdriver and opening the C.M.B.P.P- Cardiac Manipulation Binary Project Program. He opened the file labeled _human cardiac arrest _which contained the line of code needed to make The Doctor's heart, and everyone else's except his and Jim's, stop.

* * *

"Ow!" The Doctor exclaimed mid sentence. He had been talking to Sherlock, who looked at him quizzically. "This- this really hurts quite a bit, you know, Sherlock. It's like heart burn but...an awful lot worse."

Sherlock looked around the room at his guests just as the lights went out, leaving them in an all too familiar darkness. "Not this, not again..."

"Sherlock, do something!" shouted John from across the room. He sounded in pain.

"Sherlock!" he heard Clara cry; he could see her in the gloom, clutching her chest.

"Sherlock!"

"Help us!"

"_Do something_!"

Sherlock stood clutching his head. His deductive skills weren't good under pressure, so he tried to pull himself together. This was The Master and Moriarty, obviously. They had to be in the building. And where had they been before? _The lower flat_.  
He sprinted out of the room, running as fast down the stairs as he could in the dark and bursting into 221c to find The Master, as he expected, sitting at a laptop and entering binary code. He wrenched the laptop out of his hands and threw it at a wall, smashing it.

"What was that for?!"

"Trying to kill us all! Why aren't the lights back on?!"

"Oh, yes! I forgot the fun part! Beetle, attack the sprinklers!" The lights came back on with the sprinklers, the water drenching the two men. They would be on upstairs too. "Freeze!" The temperature began to drop; it kept dropping past zero degrees, and Sherlock started to panic. The Master was planning to kill them all- obviously.


	18. Chapter 18

John was a doctor. Although he was an army doctor and under the circumstances was used to working under hot conditions, he still had a basic knowledge of hypothermia. He knew that if your body drops much below thirty seen degrees, you've had it. He was pretty sure that his and everyone else's was hovering at about thirty six point five, which was a bit not good. He estimated that if the temperature kept dropping, they would have about fifteen minutes to live. More than a bit not good.

"Everyone, get in the TARDIS!"

"That's no good! the indoor temperature matches the outdoor, and it can't fly when it's this cold!"

"Shit!"

* * *

"You can stop this, you know. Stop me from killing all your..._friends_." Moriarty taunted.

"Well actually, it's him that's killing them."

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What do you need me to do?"

"How would you prefer to die, Sherlock Holmes? A heart attack? A bullet in your brain? I could just make your brain and hearts _explode_, I suppose. Quite literally."

* * *

John scoured the flat for blankets, taking them from his and Sherlock's rooms and wrapping them around everyone as best he could. Eventually all eighteen guests stood in a huddle in the middle of the living room, desperately trying not to die of hypothermia.

* * *

"I...I want to do it myself."

"What, you want to _kill yourself_? Do you really think I'm going to give you a gun?"

"Ah, you see, I already have one." Sherlock said slightly, pulling the gun from his pocket and shooting the main controls in one motion.

* * *

"I...I think I'm dying. It's getting warmer."

The temperature slowly went back to normal; John told everyone not to move, as thinking it's hot when it's actually sub zero is a symptom of hypothermia. But thankfully they weren't dying. Good.

* * *

"You...you hit the beetle?!"

"Don't state the obvious, Harold, it's rather degrading. Now, Jim, I suggest you get out of my flat. Did you really think you could get rid of me that easily?"


	19. Chapter 19

"Where are you two going?" The Doctor asked as Sherlock and John prepared to leave the flat. A month had passed since the frankly disastrous birthday party. Moriarty hadn't played another of his little games since, thankfully.

"Lestrade has a case for us."

"What, you're going without me?"

"Obviously." replied Sherlock, wrapping his scarf around his neck.

"Let me come. I'll help. I've got a sonic screwdriver, remember?"

"So?"

"It can unlock safes, doors, break into bank accounts, scan for fingerprints on an object-"

"Okay, fine. Just try not to be a nuisance."

* * *

"That's...not very nice at all." said The Doctor, who was looking at the body of a dead man, who's dismembered arm was lying a foot away on the filthy floorboards.

"You can leave any time you like. I didn't know you had such a weak stomach, Doctor." said Sherlock mockingly as he inspected the severed limb. "Machete, eight inches, give or take. Bled to death..." he muttered.

"I'm fine...I just don't want to know the details." John looked at his friend with concern; he was used to it- he had been in the army, was a doctor himself and had visited multiple crime scenes with the other man. The Doctor was new to this.

"Really, you can go back to Baker Street. We won't think any less of you."

"I will." added Sherlock, still kneeling over the dead man.

"Ignore him."

"No, really, I'm fine. I just need a minute..." or more. The Doctor found it almost sickening, the ease with which Sherlock and John handled a murder, seeing a severed arm on the floor. He was in serious danger of throwing up just thinking about it.

"You alright, mate? You're white as a sheet." asked Lestrade, who was standing in the doorway.

"Yeah, thanks. I mean, not really, but...is there any way I can make myself useful?"

"If you can stomach Anderson, there's an evidence search in the kitchen, just opposite. Not so much blood in there."

The Doctor walked past Lestrade and into the kitchen, looking for a lock. That was the only way he could be useful, really. He could be useful by unlocking a lock. It was laughable, compared to Sherlock's talents.  
He eventually found a locked drawer, and held the sonic screwdriver to it. The drawer fell open, and so did the timelord's mouth.

"Sherlock! Get in here!"


	20. Chapter 20

**_Helloo! Sorry for the late update, school and everything got in the way :/ anyway, enjoy :) LS_**

"You found the murder weapon."

"Don't state the obvious."

"Let me rephrase that- _you _found the murder weapon."

"What can I say? I've got a sonic screwdriver."

"And luck."

"And skill. And talent."

"Oh, _do _continue."

"Can you two shut up for a minute? Please?" begged John, frustrated. The Doctor and Sherlock glared at each other silently. "I'm going to get this sent to the lab. Try not to kill each other while I'm away."

* * *

The Doctor listened to Sherlock playing the violin. It really was extraordinary, if a bit loud if you were in the same room as him.  
The consulting detective finished the piece, removing the bow from the string and spinning it around his finger once before placing it on the coffee table. He sat down, picking up a teacup and taking a sip. The Doctor sat and fiddled with his bowtie, reluctant to mention the elephant in the room before his friend did.

"I would have thought less of you, you know."

"I know."

"A severed arm shouldn't have affected you, not when you've seen countless people- friends -die right before your eyes. You're uncannily like John, in that way. Sensitive, then indifferent...although you've both fought wars."

"People kill each other for a reason in war, and they aim to kill. They don't do it in a way that wastes time- why would you cut off someone's arm, Sherlock? There's no need."

"I wish I knew. All I can say is that the murderer hated the victim, enough to torture, maim, kill him...I wouldn't do that to anyone, not even Anderson."

"So you're stumped? The great Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, I'm just not a psychologist or a human behavior specialist; I don't know my own feelings, less the feelings of others."

"You solve every murder without asking why?"

"Oh, no, I always know the motive."

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know."


End file.
